I've been planning this short drabble series of a robo!Sanji for a while now, based on this one world from my other fic, "Another Time, Another Day". I'm hoping to update every two weeks or so.
/
"Designation: Zero-Three-Zero-Two-Zero-Seven. Repeat."
"Designation: Zero-Three-Zero-Two-Zero-Seven,"
"Very good. And your primary function?"
"Security of the Alabasta Estate,"
"Correct. Set up complete. Shut down."
/
His life is ruled by a routine. An endless cycle of paroling through the palace halls, analyzing every movement and corner. Time is irrelevant. He can last without recharge for a whole month, his body designed to never ware down with the strenuous movement that his job requires. His memory storage is practically limitless. He is one of a kind.
He is the first in a new model released only to those who could afford such expensive equipment. He is just the beginning but they already see him as a success. Reliable, durable, multi-functional. But what really sets him apart from the other, older robots is his face. The face that shares the image of man.
The machines you see lined up along shop windows, available for use in any household, are faceless, their bodies just basic frames of a human to give them mobility and hands to work with. But he is different. He looks like the ones he serves, the ones who created him, he looks human.
He looks like a man but his body is cold, nothing but metal. His hair is soft and a bright yellow but it can never grow. His strength, though impressive, comes from his false body. The sensation of taste, touch, smell, is nothing more than clever programming of faux-nerves.
He is aware of all of this. He is aware of his origin, his creator, his main function. He knows he is not human.
"Hey Zeff, that 'bot's back again!"
He is standing by the doorway of the large palace kitchen. He is still, watching every movement in the room at once. At this time, he is suppose to be patrolling the west wing, rounding that one corner with the framed picture of Vivi and Kohza as kids hanging on the wall, but instead he finds himself, for the third time that week, at the kitchen entrance.
An old man – Zeff, his databanks supply him with, the head chef of the palace's kitchen for 15 years, lost his leg in unknown accident – approaches him with a raised brow and hands at his hips.
"Again?" the man questions. "Has the shitty thing malfunctioned already?"
Something inside of him sparks and heats at the idea that he, of all creations, could malfunction. He was, after all, suppose to the greatest invention of the generation. The feeling is unfamiliar though, so he files it away to report later.
The old chef is waiting for an explanation. He opens his mouth to speak, to explain his presence, but nothing comes out. Being at a loss of words is something he has never experienced with before.
"I found," he begins before stopping to start again. "I am intrigued by your work here."
The words are somewhat foreign to him. Never before had he admitted to himself of being intrigued, of being curious, about something, anything. His primary function is security, nothing more, nothing less.
The kitchen staff is quiet, staring at him with wide eyes and wonder. Zeff's stance and expression has yet to change though and, despite all improbability, the room seems to shrink to contain just the two of them.
Finally, Zeff speaks, "So what do you want, you piece of junk?"
Somewhere in his processing he registers the gruff tone and the insult yet he focuses only on the question itself. It is another foreign phrase. What did he want? No one had ever asked him what he wanted, no one ever asked him anything that didn't involve his objective. More unknown feelings swell inside him and his loss of words seem to disappear.
"I would like to learn," he replies.
His response is obviously shocking to the other occupants of the room as many gasp in surprise. Zeff continues to study him intently, ignoring the murmurs that were quickly filling the kitchen.
Another chef – Patty, is the name he is given – speaks up.
"I thought you 'bots could just look something up in that endless database brain you've got. Don't you have the entire internet in there or something?"
"Something like that, yes," he admits. He looks back to Zeff and his hand automatically clenches at his side before easing up again, a gesture he's seen Kohza do many times when he particularly stressful or nervous. Was he...nervous? No, impossible. "But I think this is something I would like to learn with experience."
Zeff's decision seems to be made then as he nods and gestures him to enter the kitchen fully.
"Alright, fine," the old man grumbles. "But if you set us back, I'm kicking your metal ass back to the scrapheap."
His eyes widen and his mouth curves into a smile as he follows the head chef to a nearby stove.
"What's your name anyway? Gotta call you something." Patty asks as he watches them.
"Designation: zero-three-zero-two-zero-seven," he recites quickly. Zeff shakes his head.
"That's too much of mouth-full in the kitchen. Come up with something else or you'll just be known as 'Junk'."
He spends the rest of the week thinking of names. He goes through lists and lists of popular baby names, speaking them aloud to find the one that sounded the most fitting. His fellow chefs give him a few suggestions but most are nothing more than jokes.
One morning when he is helping Zeff with breakfast, reciting the names that he chose as possible candidates, he hears Zeff mumble one under his breath.
He tries saying it for himself and smiles.
Yes, Sanji sounds rather nice.